No More Games
by night.ixora
Summary: Sherlock reflecting on Irene's supposed death during "A Scandal in Belgravia."


The size, shape, and weight of the box alone made his heart skid into an irregular rhythm. He had been quietly thrilled by the box's color that caused a memory of the Woman's scarlet lips to flash through his thoughts, but when the familiarity of the weight registered in the back of his mind, the realization transformed the feelings of anticipation to ash.

"Scuse me," he said, moving away from the group.

John's voice chased him. "What—what's up, Sherlock?"

Sherlock almost didn't respond; his mind full of possibilities, trying to simultaneously repress the desolation of sentiment and the irrationality of hope. "I said, 'Excuse me.'" Sherlock responded flatly to keep anyone from following out of concern or curiosity.

He barely registered John shouting after him. "D'you ever reply?"

Reply? He unflinching recalled where he was and what he was doing when all of her texts came to him. John had acknowledged 57 texts. Sherlock had in fact received 65 texts from Ms. Adler since their last meeting. There was nothing to say. She had beaten him soundly when they last clashed, and came back while he was in a drug filled daze to show him how badly he underestimated her. He had no intention of engaging the Woman until he better understood her battle ground. She was clever and remarkable in a way where it wouldn't do to bait and reply to her as if she were any of the dull people around him.

The Woman deserved a game more intricate and challenging. Interacting with her would require more from him, and the thought had thrilled him. The dark sensuality of her haunted his dreams and mind. He tried to justify it all as mental reconstruction to reanalyze her, but then, there were the moments where he thought about how pleasing she looked dressed only in his coat.

In the privacy of his own room, he moved a little quicker, settling onto his bed and removing the green cord around the red box. When he looked at the box, he no longer saw Irene's scarlet lip tint, only that the gift box was not wrapped and hastily put together with a green cord. There was no time for proper paper gift wrapping. His mouth set into a thin line at the thought. He lifted the lid. He felt his heart strangely constrict as stared down at the phone. Sherlock picked the mobile up and examined it, confirming what he already knew. There would be no more games.

* * *

Calling Mycroft and identifying the body were all insignificant. There was a deep ache. The knowledge of something irreplaceable and wonderful lost to his world. The sharp empty space she once occupied in his mind as potential pulled at him like an endless void. Knowing her brilliance was not on the other side of any future games, reminded him of his fate of loneliness His life filled with an isolating intelligence that separated him from the rest of humanity. The one he had once tried to fill with drugs until they numbed him up one side and down the other. There was a thought: to be numb would be a beautiful escape.

Sherlock stared out into the falling snow landscape, trying to recall that numbness and mentally recreate the appealing white blankness of being mentally gone from himself. He longed desperately for the high to lift him away from the oppressing state of existing. Existing alone around so many damn people.

He heard Mycroft come up behind him. Sherlock turned his head slightly as a cig was held up just out of his periphery.

"Just the one."

"Why?"

"Merry Christmas."

_A test then._ Sherlock thought idly unable to bring himself to care. He took the offered cig, hoping the nicotine fog would soften his thoughts but also knowing it wasn't nearly enough. The gaping maw of loneliness only chuckled at the pathetic offering. "Smoking indoors—isn't there one of those—one of those law things?"

Mycroft lit the cigarette. "We're in a morgue. There's only so much damage you can do."

Sherlock inhaled deeply. Damage. There was an amusing thought. How much damage could he do? Mycroft of all people would know. He was there last time to pick up the pieces. Sherlock's body responded to the memory of the tobacco. The feeling barely dented his misery like a gauzy veil would stop a train.

"How did you know she was dead?"

The detective emerged from within to answer. "She had an item in her possession. One she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up." He heard himself answer dispassionately, clinically. If only Sherlock could find the numbness he mimicked so effortlessly.

"Where is this item now?"

Sherlock ignored the question. The phone was all that was left of the promise that was her. He turned away from Mycroft. The detective saw a grieving family through double doors. He envied them. There they were. Able to grieve. Able to be together in their grief. They existed and shared a sense of belonging with someone. They were able to care about someone; to pull another person into their existence and not have them turn away. He felt his envy turn sour. "Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken," Mycroft spoke slowly. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Of course. The words were exactly what he needed to hear. Exactly the thing to reinforce the string of logic Sherlock had seen throughout his life. Only it was another gauzy veil. This was never about caring. He never had the opportunity to care. She had only given him the promise of not being alone. Now, there was only a low tar cigarette when he desperately needed something stronger.


End file.
